


The Worst Taste in Men

by Vamillepudding



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Fantasy, Angst and Humor, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-06 00:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21217301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: At last, Cobb has finished his call, just in time to join this inane conversation. “What’s going on?” he asks in that paternal sort of way that makes Eames raise his eyebrows and Arthur’s eyes drop to the floor.“Nothing,” Arthur says at the same time that Eames says, “Arthur is about to lose himself to bloodlust, we need to act fast.”Both Cobb and Arthur stare at him. Then Arthur bites (ha) out, “I’m not a fucking vampire.”***Eames is both a shapeshifter and a conman, and he is desperately trying to figure out what, exactly, Arthur is. So far, he is not succeeding.





	The Worst Taste in Men

Eames meets Arthur on Christmas Eve, half past eleven, with both of them dodging shots. Eames shifts into a dozen different people in as many seconds; his default reaction for stress situations – which, in this job, is always. At this point, he can’t tell anymore if it was him who started the shootout, or if it was Arthur, a bloke he met all of two minutes ago who introduced himself in the same breath as he punched one of Guggenheim’s men in the throat. 

A quarter to midnight, he also meets Cobb, who jumps out of a moving car, ruffles Arthur’s hair, and shakes Eames’ hand. “Thank you for taking care of my point man,” he says. Arthur, looking mortified, says, “I’m not _twelve_.” Eames, who has just watched Arthur casually break a man’s neck not two minutes prior, simply says “You’re welcome” in that cheerful tone that often ignites in people the fierce wish to punch him. 

By now, all their attackers are gone. One of them is lying on the ground not two metres away, slowly bleeding out from where Eames stabbed him. Eames shifts back into himself in time to notice the tight set of Arthur’s jaw as he stares at the corpse. His hands, now that Eames is paying attention, are clenched, the knuckles white with tension, and his gaze is fixed on the trickle of blood. 

Shit. Alright. Eames has never done this before, but he knows the rules. He taps Arthur on the shoulder, harder than necessary, and notes with satisfaction that Arthur’s attention shifts to him. 

“We’re getting out of here,” Eames says. “Now. Cobb?”  
Cobb makes shushing motions as he talks into his phone. Arthur, very detachedly, explains, “He’s organising our getaway car. Shouldn’t take more than-“ Cobb holds up two fingers – “-two minutes. You can come with us, or you can stay here. What – what are you doing?” 

Eames, caught in the motion of dumping the dead body behind a dumpster, says, “Getting this out of your sight. You can still smell it, but this should lessen the temptation, eh?” 

“Lessen the temptation,” Arthur repeats, the words sounding foreign coming out of his mouth. “What temptation?” 

“Arthur.” Eames desperately tries to recall anything he has ever read about this subject. He needs to appear patient, yet firm. “There is no shame in this, mate. You are supported. Things will look up soon. This is not the end of the world. We are your-“ His words are cut off by Arthur ripping the phone from his hand, yelling, “Are you reading these from a fucking website? What – friendsforfangs-dot-com? What the fuck?” 

At last, Cobb has finished his call, just in time to join this inane conversation. “What’s going on?” he asks in that paternal sort of way that makes Eames raise his eyebrows and Arthur’s eyes drop to the floor. 

“Nothing,” Arthur says at the same time that Eames says, “Arthur is about to lose himself to bloodlust, we need to act fast.” 

Both Cobb and Arthur stare at him. Then, in quick succession, three things happen: 

Arthur bites (ha) out, “I’m not a fucking vampire.” 

Cobb, looking worried, says, “Uh, guys-“ 

And then a fairy appears quite literally out of thin air, takes one look at the scene, swears, and teleports Cobb and Arthur away just as shots start ringing again. 

Also, the Big Ben starts ringing its bells in the announcement of Christmas Day.

***

They meet again on New Year’s Eve, a whole year and six days later. Eames is spending the last day of the year in New York, because really, where else would you spend it? The city that never sleeps might be home to the largest werewolf cult in the world (excepting Bratislava), the king of which has put a hit out on Eames not so long ago, but it’s also home to the most spectacular parties. Eames plans to get very drunk, and to find a nice witch or a nice Djinn to kiss at midnight and to shag afterwards, and he also plans to not get killed while all of this drinking and kissing and shagging is happening. 

He is currently wearing a suit and the face of a very hot flight attendant he once met (and, regrettably, got fired, for inappropriate behaviour at the workplace), and he’s on the roof of one of New York’s skyscrapers, at Linda’s lavish party, holding a flute of sparkling champagne. 

No less than six people have propositioned him so far, which is pleasant but of no importance: It’s only 10 pm, and he’s not nearly drunk enough yet, and also - 

Someone taps his shoulder. Eames turns around, smile fixed firmly on the flight attendant’s face, only to see Arthur directly in front of him. Arthur, too, is wearing a suit, but he’s not smiling. 

At once, Eames is struck by the horrific realisation that perhaps Arthur is trying to hit on him, the flight attendant, and Eames would be too weak-minded to refuse, and they’d end up having sex in a closet or something, and at some point Eames’ façade would slip, and Arthur would kill him or shout at him or at least never forgive him. 

Then Arthur says grimly, “Mr Eames,” and Eames only barely suppresses a reaction. 

“Excuse me?” he says politely, in that neat Virginian accent he’s been using all night. 

“Stop that,” Arthur demands, and then, to Eames’ horror, he pinches him. “You shouldn’t be here. Blade wants you dead.” 

“Blade shouldn’t have hired me, then,” Eames snaps, finally shifting back. Instantly, his suit feels tighter. “I told him my terms.” 

“You didn’t tell him you’d sleep with his niece.” 

“Is that why you’re here, then?” Eames asks. It comes out more accusing than he intended. “You’re working as a hitman now? Or perhaps…” He trails off as an idea occurs to him. 

“Perhaps what?” 

“Clan loyalty.” 

“_I_,” Arthur says in a tone that promises death, “am not a werewolf. And _you _are about to join the ghosts. Ten O’clock.” 

Eames doesn’t need to turn to know that there’ll be a scary man or woman there. He swears. “Go on then. Kill me before your colleague does. Makes the pay-out higher that way, eh?”

“I’m also not a hitman,” Arthur whispers into his ear, a split second before an explosion blows the roof off and takes them with it.

***

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, darling,” Eames says, more amused than anything else. “You have a habit of ruining all my favourite holidays.” 

Arthur’s frown couldn’t be more pronounced if he tried. “It’s the Fourth of July.” 

“So?”

“So you’re British.” 

“Anything for an excuse to let off fireworks,” Eames drawls from where he’s sprawled lazily by the pool. “Especially since I didn’t get to see any on New Year’s Eve.” 

He’ll never find out if Arthur intended to reply, since Cobb chooses that moment to shout, “The first batch of hotdogs is ready, folks!” 

How he got an invitation to the Cobbs’ Fourth of July party, he still doesn’t know. Possibly it has something to do with Cobb feeling guilty about leaving him behind at that shootout the first time they met. It is, perhaps, the one thing Eames doesn’t hold against him. Can’t exactly argue with fairy godmothers. 

He stays by the pool, idly watching a group of partygoers play waterpolo. At some point a small child wanders up to him. It’s impossible to determine its gender; Eames doesn’t bother trying. 

The child sits down next to his sun lounger and drips ice cream on his bare foot. If this is what having kids is like, Eames can do without that, thanks very much. 

Arthur comes back just as Eames has started getting used to the idea of having a sticky small person in his immediate vicinity. 

“Come on, Pippa,” Arthur says, holding out a hand to the kid. _This_, at last, gets Eames’ attention. 

“She yours?” 

“Dom’s,” Arthur corrects. “I’m on babysitting duty.” 

There is something incredibly weird about seeing Arthur like this: Dressed in shorts and a faded t-shirt, now with a toddler propped up against his hip. Eames thinks that this new Arthur might even be prone to smiling, just a little. 

To test out this new theory, he shifts into Daniel Radcliffe. Kids like Harry Potter, right? 

Pippa starts crying immediately, causing Arthur to glare at him in accusation. “Seriously? Pip, no, don’t cry. Eames will be back in no time, won’t he? _Won’t you_?”

Dutifully, Eames shifts back. This does not end the crying. If anything, Dom’s sprog has started wailing even harder. Arthur doesn’t even look at him as he stalks away, every tense inch of his body betraying his anger. 

Mal appears by his side about three beers later. It’s been several months since Eames last saw her; apparently long enough for her to have a child. Weird to think about, that: Being old enough to have friends with kids now. He’s attended three weddings last year alone, one of which underwater due to the bride being one of the merfolk. Every guest had to wear special diving equipment. It’d been a blast. 

“She inherited my gift,” Mal tells him in clipped French vowels. Her hair is short now; it suits her. “But she is not strong enough yet. You might feel sick for a day or two, nothing more.” 

“Bloody banshees,” Eames says, taking another sip of his beer. “Arthur seemed fine though, didn’t he?” It’s a bit of an invasive question, asking about someone else’s gift, but he figures that at this point he might as well try. Some species are immune to banshees’ cries. Cobb, one of the few humans of the trade, certainly isn’t, but presumably they deal with it by having Mal cry as little as possible – which will either do wonders for their marriage or end in a divorce sooner rather than later. 

“Arthur does not like to see either of my two favourite women cry,” Cobb cuts in from where he walked up behind them, which is really no answer at all. Mal certainly seems to think it is, though, because she lifts up her head to allow her husband to do more than kiss her cheek in affection. Eames sidles away when both Cobbs appear to be sufficiently occupied. 

Perhaps it’s about time to cut this party short. He’ll go find a bar somewhere nearby; it’s been ages since he had a proper shag, anyway. 

For just a second Eames considers finding Arthur among the guests. He’d find him, and ask him how on New Year’s Eve he knew it was Eames, and perhaps ask about his gift, very subtly. 

He could do all of that. Instead he goes to find a bar.

***

“Fuck. Fucking motherfucking fuck. _Shit_.” 

“If you’re quite done-“ 

“Right. Shit. Sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to get us out of this. Fuck.” 

“You know…this is the type of situation where a spell might be useful.” 

“Fuck you, I’m not a witch.” 

“Well. Worth a shot.”

***

They work three more jobs, and meet at two more parties. Somehow, they seem to have acquired the same social circle of criminals, which is worth noting but not worth minding. 

The question of Arthur’s gift becomes more pressing and less important at the same time. Eames finds he likes the man better than the mystery; he is dying to find out. He worries knowing might change things; he has never wanted to know anything more. 

They find themselves in more than one tight spot, as well. Arthur, on one memorable occasion, gets shot in the shoulder, and Eames has to simultaneously fend off attackers, carry Arthur to a safe location, and also make sure Arthur doesn’t bleed out. He manages all of these, just barely, and as he is carefully removing the bullet, he can’t resist checking. 

“My blood is red,” Arthur snaps, eyes shut in pain. “I’m not one of the fae.” 

“Didn’t think you were,” Eames replies with good grace. “I’m going to drug you now.” 

“For the love of God, be quick about it.” 

“I just wish you wouldn’t be so injured.” 

“Not…a Djinn,” Arthur manages to get out before he passes out.

***

Eames gets a phone call late one night. He picks up once he sees Arthur’s name flash on the screen, while the guy he was just about to go down on says, “Seriously? _Now_?” 

“Shut it, Dave,” Eames says goodnaturedly, ignores the offended “It’s _Rupert_,” and says loudly, “Hello, Arthur.” 

Arthur, because he’s rude like that, does not bother with a greeting. “Stop researching me.” 

“_Darling_,” Eames exclaims in shock, mostly to buy himself some time, since he totally did try to research Arthur this past week. “I would _never_.” 

“Whatever,” Arthur says. “Stop it. You won’t find anything, anyway, so you might as well stop bothering. More importantly, it makes you seem like a creep. I don’t sleep with creeps. Is that clear?” 

“Perfectly,” Eames replies, and then backtracks the conversation. “Wait, are you saying you _want to _sleep with me?”

“Goodnight, Eames.” 

“Fucking hell,” says Eames once Arthur has hung up. He says it again for good measure and then realises Dave is on the bed. “You’re still here?” 

“What, did you want me to leave? I thought this was, y’know. Happening.” 

Eames thinks of the phone call he just had, thinks of Arthur’s weird implication, thinks of the way Arthur always looks so serious even when he’s clearly joking, thinks of how Arthur looks in his suits and how Arthur looks in shitty shorts and a t shirt, and then he thinks of how Arthur might look outside of all that… 

“Yeah,” he says as he climbs onto the bed. “This is happening.”

***

His new theory is fool proof. Evidence has been gathered on all fronts, and Eames has now come to the steadfast conclusion that Arthur, by process of elimination and taking all the clues into account, must be an incubus. 

“Why else would I want to sleep with him this badly?” he tells Yusuf over a pint. 

“Why else indeed,” Yusuf says, tone and face long-suffering. Between the two of them only Eames is drinking; he’s never been able to find out if this is a religious thing or a species thing. Yusuf keeps his gift under tight wraps; Eames only knows that it’s part of why Yusuf has trouble staying in long-term relationships, and also makes cats hiss at him. 

Now that he thinks of it, he guesses it’s kind of funny how him and Yusuf have been mates for nearly a decade now, and not knowing Yusuf’s gift has never been a cause for sleepless nights for Eames. Perhaps this is less about the mystery and more about Arthur. Perhaps it’s part of Arthur’s incubus-power, making people think about him constantly. 

“Yes, that sounds extremely likely,” Yusuf says when presented with this new piece of evidence. 

“That’s what I thought,” Eames says confidently, downing his pint before he signals the waiter for another.

***

The thing about realising your co-worker-slash-friend is an incubus is that there’s not exactly a manual on it – at least, that’s what Eames thinks until he goes on Amazon, which immediately suggests him four “articles of interest”: 

_413 words of advice on every day matters like Being Friends with an Incubus or Making the Perfect Apple Pie  
_

_So your girlfriend is a succubus – so what?  
_

_'I've Drunk the Sexual Energy of Every Friend I Have and other Incubus Problems'_

And, perhaps most worryingly: 

_The Idiot's Guide for Platonically Befriending an Incubus, and other such Sex Demons - now with a practical guide to hosting, camping and the art of body paint, but in a friendly way, of course  
_

Eames hastens to close his browser. But not before he added three of those books to his shopping cart. 

Manual or not; things stay mostly the same. Eames invites Arthur on four more jobs, three of which Arthur accepts; and Arthur does not invite Eames to anything but recommends him to Gregory “once had a threesome with client and mark” Wilson, which is just about the highest praise Arthur gives out – for all his faults, Gregory is one of the best in the business, and has had infamous falling-outs with most of Dreamshare’s lesser talented workers. 

When they meet, for work or for social occasions (or for when Arthur gets trapped in a fairy ring and Eames has to promise a shady forest-creature his firstborn to obtain the magic sword that will save Arthur and lower that forest’s fairy population to a significant amount), Eames is always careful not to touch Arthur too much, because he’s read somewhere that touching will actually increase his lust and, therefore, Arthur’s power. He also makes sure not to look Arthur in the eyes overly often, and not to think of like, sucking Arthur’s dick, when Arthur is around. 

For the most part it works. They are better friends than ever now, actually. It feels liberating: Eames finally knows Arthur’s gift, so now they can both move on. 

It all comes to a halt on Halloween. The 31st of October is yet another holiday that Eames finds himself inexplicably in Arthur’s presence for. This time they are running from an angry mobster, who is also a shapeshifter and could thus be literally anyone in the crowd of São Paulo’s busy streets, and who is also, regrettably, Eames’ second cousin once removed. 

“What,” Arthur pants as they duck into an alleyway, “the fuck. What the _fuck_, Eames.”

“Don’t – blame me – ‘s not my fault,” Eames manages to get out, bracing one hand against the brick wall to get his breath back.

Presumably he should work out more. Presumably he should also get shot at less. 

A door on the other side of the alley with the words “staff only” written on it opens to a red-faced woman holding two garbage bags. It’s more instinct than conscious knowledge that makes Eames move, so that he’s precisely in time to wrestle the gun out of Arthur’s grip and slam him against the wall, where he only barely manages to hold Arthur in place until the sound of a door falling shut makes him ease his grip. 

“Give me my fucking gun back,” Arthur snaps. Eames gives him his gun back. 

“You were going to shoot that woman,” he says, feeling a bit snappish himself. “Not everyone is a threat.” 

“Everybody _could be_,” Arthur argues. “Besides, I wasn’t going to shoot her.” He pauses. “Well. I wasn’t going to _kill_ her. I wouldn’t kill your cousin.” 

“You better not,” Eames says. “She’s hosting Christmas dinner.” 

This startles out a sharp laugh out of Arthur, who looks rather surprised by this turn of events. 

In all the time they’ve known each other, all these years, Eames thinks he has never seen Arthur laugh. 

Once he has regained his composure, Arthur looks back to the end of the alley, where the main street is intersecting it. “I think we lost her for now,” he says, and Eames nods slowly. They should keep going, anyway, get a cab to the airport, leave this country behind for the foreseeable future, but neither of them moves. It is, at once, both an odd parallel to the night they met, and inherently different. Eames doesn’t think Arthur would just stand to leave him behind, now. 

Faltering, Arthur asks, “Do you think-“ before cutting himself off, his face colouring. Eames, naturally, is instantly curious beyond measure. 

“Do I think what?” 

“Just – do you think, maybe, we could go to a bar? Not now, obviously, but – Actually, no. Let’s go to a bar right now. Let’s go find a bar, and have a drink, and then let’s find a hotel room.” 

Something inside Eames goes very, very cold. He’d thought they were past this. He’d thought Arthur wouldn’t cross that line. 

“Arthur – look, mate.” At the use of mate, Arthur’s face closes off, but Eames soldiers on. “We’ve known each other for what, three years now? Let’s not ruin this, eh?” 

“Ruin this,” Arthur echoes quietly. 

“Yeah, I just – it’s none of my business what you do to feed, but don’t you think this is a bit much?” 

“Just to clarify,” Arthur says, “what do you think is happening right now?” 

“Well, you-“ Eames starts, gesturing vaguely at Arthur. “Do you need me to say it?” 

“This isn’t fucking Twilight,” Arthur spits out. “I’ll say it. I think that _you_ think I’m an incubus, _and_ that you think I just asked you out to feed off your sexual energy or magic dick or whatever, and I _also_ think that I have the worst fucking taste in men.” 

Eames stares at him, aghast. His brain is still working to process what’s happening. “No,” he says eventually, “no, that can’t be right. If you’re not an incubus, what’d you ask me out for then?” 

Never has Arthur looked this scarily blank, not even when they were both kidnapped by ghouls who pulled off his fingernails one by one. “I thought you wanted…I just thought. I’m sorry.” 

Something is missing here, Eames thinks, some element he is not getting, something just out of his reach. But all the pieces are there.

“You thought I was hitting on you?” he realises. 

“Weren’t you? Isn’t that what all this bullshit with finding out my Gift was about?” 

Slowly, more to himself than to Arthur, Eames says, “That wasn’t…It was always about the chase. I’m a thief. You had a secret, and I wanted to steal it.” 

Arthur closes his eyes, which is crazy, because technically they _are_ still being followed. But maybe it’s been the sort of evening for closed eyes. “Right. Well, for the record, you could have just asked me. I’d have told you. But you never asked.” 

It’s never been about asking, Eames knows. It’s been about piecing together all the big things and the small things that Arthur has said or done over the years, every bit of it, everything that makes him _Arthur_. Eames is a conman in almost every area of his life, but not when it comes to this. He didn’t lie to Arthur, it was about the chase. Except now he is no longer sure what it was he was chasing. 

Still – he can’t let this go, can’t just let this opportunity pass. He asks, “So what’s your gift?” 

And Arthur, looking incredibly tired, says, “I’m human. I always have been.”

***

In a rare fit of guilty conscience, Eames does not call Arthur. Eames does-not-call-Arthur so much that not-calling-Arthur practically turns into a profession in his hands, and as with most professions he has ever tried, he finds himself both rather successful and rather bored by it within a short time.

Normally, he’d call it quits and go find a painting to steal. Because he can’t exactly do that now, he settles for throwing his phone against a wall the second his fingers finally do hover above the call-button. Finally, not-calling-Arthur is no longer an exercise of will, but a fact of life. 

He successfully not-calls-Arthur for three weeks, three days and two hours, in the meantime of which he distracts himself by spending a large portion of his earnings on a new XX, which he promptly crashes, and then one day, he walks out of Yusuf’s shitty apartment building and gets hit over the head with a blunt object.

He wakes up cable-tied to a chair in what looks to be a hotel suite. A posh one, too, Eames notes with approval. 

Sitting on the bed in front of him are two women, one possibly just escaped from a photoshoot for Vogue, the other one in a shitty bathrobe. They appear to be debating the Kirk-or-Picard-question, as far as Eames can tell through the sharp headache penetrating his skull. 

“-see your point, but The Original Series just stays the original, y’know?” Bathrobe says. “Also, he’s awake.” 

Vogue’s head snaps back to Eames faster than he can convincingly pretend to be asleep. 

“Hi,” he says to his kidnappers, who are now both looking at him. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

It’s not the first time he has been kidnapped. It’s not even the first time _this year_. Eames figures he can get out of this simply on account of him having gotten out of similar situations before. 

Maybe they want money, or they want to know how the PASIV works, or they are the daughters/sisters/mistresses of some former mark. Maybe they want to use his shapeshifting skills, or they think all shapeshifters should die. Eames figures it’s gotta be at least one of those, because it always is. 

Then Vogue says, “We want Arthur.” 

And Eames smartly says, “Huh?”

***

Half an hour later, all three of them are sitting on the floor, Eames chair along with the cable ties forgotten. Room service sent them up three bottles of wine and no pizza; two of those bottles have already been consumed. Eames really wishes they had ordered pizza. 

“Oh no,” Bathrobe says while her friend is frowning at Eames. “You really _said that_ to him? Why?” 

“Because he’s a moron,” says Vogue. “Hey, anyone else feel this weird craving for Italian food suddenly?”

“Now that’s my kind of woman,” Eames exclaims, pointing at her with his glass; a bit of wine spills down on the carpet. The red splash of colour in between all that white is really quite fascinating, he thinks, staring down at it. Almost like modern art. 

A fingersnap right in front of his face brings him back to reality. “Hey! You listening? So you’re saying you really told your old headmaster he could suck your dick? What is wrong with you?” 

“Oh,” Eames says, confused. “Are we still talking about that? I thought we were talking about Arthur. How I can’t call him because I realised my undying love for him about ten minutes to late, you know, that sort of thing.” 

“I’m ordering pizza,” Vogue informs the room at large. Her perfectly styled hair is no longer perfectly styled; in fact, it looks a bit like she and Bathrobe were snogging in the bathroom earlier while Eames was going through the wine menu, instead of reapplying each other’s makeup – oh. Oh, he sees what happened there. “Oh no, you spilled the wine.” 

“Give me a bowl of wine,” Eames mutters. 

“Shakespeare,” says Bathrobe, and, “I want mushrooms and pepperoni. What’s this about undying love?” 

“He asked me out,” Eames tells her. For dramatic effect, he lies down on his back. His head lands in the puddle of wine; he flinches, but doesn’t move. “Arthur asked me out, and I told him no, and now he is surely off riding into the sunset with some asshole who isn’t me, or co-parenting the Cobb-children forever. In a bit more immediately relevant news, though, this also means I can’t call him for you, because I’m trying my hand at this not-call-Arthur thing, and I have to say, it- what are you doing?” 

Vogue, ordering complete, has handed the phone back to Bathrobe, who types in a number and holds it to Eames’ ear. With his eyes still closed, he only hears the ringtone, and then a familiar voice saying, “Yes?” 

Abruptly, Eames sits up. He covers the phone with his hand and hisses, again, “What are you doing” at both women. Vogue clucks her tongue at him. Bathrobe says, “Tell him we want to hire him for a job. Pretend to be injured if that helps.” 

Eames is planning to do no such thing. Instead, he is planning to hang up, and then maybe destroy this phone, and then he’ll go throw himself off a cliff somewhere, but not before he’s had a slice of pizza first. God, he’s really craving that pizza now. 

At least some of this must show on his face, because suddenly, the phone is no longer in his possession. He only has time to flail his arms in the universal gesture of, _asdfghjk_, before Vogue says, “We have your boyfriend.” Then she rattles off an address. Eames hopes it’s the address of his cliff, but somehow, he doubts it. “If you don’t come quickly, he dies.” 

“Put him on the phone,” Arthur demands, his voice ringing out tinnily over the speakerphone. “Proof of life. Now.” 

Vogue holds out the phone. Eames shakes his head. Bathrobe sighs pinches him in the thigh, and he yelps in both pain and betrayal. 

Arthur hangs up. Rubbing his thigh, Eames dejectedly says, “Today sucks.”

***

Arthur, when he finally comes, does so with guns blazing and a haggered-looking Cobb right behind him. Mortified, Eames realises that Arthur has actually called back-up for this. Now he almost feels guilty about not actually being in mortal peril like Arthur clearly assumed he was. Perhaps if he winks at Vogue just right, she’ll shoot him in the shoulder or something; she seems the type.

Then again, he thinks, right as Arthur wastes no time in putting a gun against Bathrobe’s head before either of the women can so much as blink, maybe not. Arthur is pretty trigger-happy on the best of days. 

“Release him,” Arthur commands. In the two hours or so it took him to get here, Eames has not only sobered up, but has also been tied back to that stupid chair. Vogue and Bathrobe said it was all for show; something they clearly regret now. 

“Work for us,” Vogue retorts, which Eames thinks is pretty bold of her: Making threats even as some random bloke has a gun trained on her and another bloke a gun trained on her girlfriend. Boldness or not: Neither of the women is very good at blackmailing, Eames thinks. Nor at kidnapping. If you’re gonna do something as stupid as this, you must really _mean it_. They should have kept Eames in a different location; they should have kept him there until their job with Arthur was over; they should have found a different ransom altogether, since

Eames kind of doubts he is very high on Arthur’s list of friends right now. 

Then again, Arthur did come for him. Immediately. Eames needs to remember that. He also needs to remember how now, Arthur says, his voice flatter than anything, “I’m not gonna work for you. Now release him, or I shoot her. Don’t think I wouldn’t.” 

“He really would,” Eames agrees, because he thinks it needs to be said. At this, Arthur’s eyes snap to him, as if he’s surprised Eames is talking and not like, choking quietly on his own blood. 

“Eames? Are you alright?” 

“Never been better,” Eames assures him. “Don’t kill the nice bathrobe lady, darling, I’d be very unhappy with you.” He’s taking a gamble here; Arthur is clearly angry, and flirting might make everything worse, after the disastrous last conversation they had. 

For a few terrifying seconds, Arthur doesn’t move; the hand holding the Glock is stock-still. Then, he sighs, or rather his body seems to be going through the motions of a sigh without a noise actually escaping his mouth. He puts the gun away. A moment later, so does Cobb. 

Relieved beyond measure that this day won’t end up with a messy clean-up and a quick getaway, and also still a bit giddy that Arthur came, in spite of everything, Eames says, “Arthur, if you don’t mind, could we have a word outside please?” 

Arthur stares at him, one eyebrow raised. He looks cold, and untouchable, and above it all, unattainable. Like this, it seems impossible that he would ever be interested in Eames. It seems _ridiculous_. And yet, he asked Eames out. 

“You’re still tied up,” Arthur points out, like Eames isn’t aware. “You. Bathrobe-Girl. Untie him.” 

“If I do, will you work for us?” she asks at the same time that Eames says, 

“If she does, will you talk to me?” 

Arthur appears to be trying to meaningfully catch Cobb’s eye; Cobb, meanwhile, steadfastly studies the ceiling. Finally, when Cobb’s gaze moves to the floor instead, Arthur says, “Fucking _fine_.” It is not clear which of them he’s talking to, but Bathrobe must be an optimist, since she unties Eames anyway. 

“Okay,” Arthur announces. “I’m glad we’re done here. I’m not going to shoot you two, since this is like, the worst kidnapping ever, but if you lay a hand on him again, trust me that you won’t like the consequences. Dom, Eames, we’re gone. Unless you’d rather stay here and eat pizza.” That last bit is accompanied with a disdainful look at the empty pizza boxes on the floor. Still pissed then, Eames thinks, getting up and dutifully following Arthur out. 

He waits until they’re in the elevator, and then his courage leaves him and he waits some more, until they’ve crossed the hotel lobby, and are seconds away from one of them calling a cab. Somehow, Eames knows that this is his last chance. If he lets this moment go, if he lets Arthur get into a cab, he’s confident that that’ll be it. They might work another job together, but Arthur will never let him bring up the subject again. 

Eames says, “Wait.” 

“Yes?” It’s truly incredible how politely-disinterested Arthur manages to sound, like Eames is an old acquaintance he ran into by chance and didn’t much care for the meeting. 

“I think,” Eames says, improvising now, “you and I should go to that bar you mentioned. We could have a drink, or maybe just have some water, because I already drank a bit of wine today, to be honest. But I think we should go to a bar, and you should let me buy you a drink, even if it is only water.” 

“I don't need a pity-fuck from you, Eames,” Arthur says. He still sounds so deatched; Eames thinks it would almost be better if Arthur was angry. 

The moment is almost lost, now. Eames is a shapeshifter with a complete and utter lack of psychic abilities, but he is certain of this, is convinced that time is running out. 

“If that is all-“  
“It’s not,” Eames says quickly. “That is not all.” And then it comes to him. “You haven’t asked what happens after I buy you that drink.”

Arthur grits out, “Fine. What happens?” 

“We go home,” Eames says, “or maybe we go to the airport, and I go visit Yusuf and you go play unpaid babysitter for the Cobbs, maybe.” 

“Hey,” Cobb says, frowning; Eames had forgotten he was there. 

Surer now, he keeps going. “We’ll part ways, but then in the evening, I call you, or maybe you call me. We’ll talk for a bit, and then we’ll hang up, and then the next day we do it again. And then a week later, or perhaps two weeks, we meet up, and we go for lunch. You’re buying this time, because I paid for that drink. And we can share stories, about how you once rescued me from some terribly untalented kidnappers, about how I thought you were a sex demon for six months because I wanted badly to sleep with you, and kiss you, and just hold your hand and maybe stroke your hair for a bit, before I made a complete ass out of myself, thus rendering all of these options nearly impossible.”

“Eames-“ 

“And then,” Eames says, “_and then_, when lunch is over and you paid the bill, we could go for a walk through Central Park, feed the ducks, that sort of thing.”

“You’re not supposed to feed the ducks,” Arthur says, though he’s trying not to smile now, and failing at it rather badly. (Cobb has, at this point, slowly backed away, until he can no longer be assumed as part of the conversation by bystanders.) 

“We’ll feed the ducks,” Eames continues stubbornly. “And you’ll let me kiss your cheek to say goodbye. I don’t know what _you’ll_ do then, but I’ll go back to my flat, and wank in the shower, and the next morning, I’ll send you a text and invite you to come watch a movie at my place, only I’ll have ulterior motives, truly terrible secret intentions, all sorts of filthy things, and we’ll get to them in due time, but not before I make us watch Lord of the Rings, because I know you’ve never seen the movies and I can’t stand to have a boyfriend who’s uneducated like that.” 

Arthur is smiling properly now. This is how it could have gone in the alley that night several weeks ago, if Eames hadn’t been an arsehole.

Or maybe it wouldn’t have gone like that. Maybe they would have had a one-night-stand, and never spoken of it again. 

Arthur, dimples on full-force, says, “This better not be some ploy to get me naked and check for scales.” 

“There shall be no checking for scales,” Eames promises solemnly. “Besides, I always knew you were human, anyway.”

Arthur actually laughs out loud at that. “No, you didn’t.” 

“No, I didn’t.” Eames pauses. They have shifted closer at some point in the last few minutes, and even if they hadn’t, Eames would still feel confident that they’ll get that drink. There’s one last thing, though. 

“I _am_ sorry, you know. About all of it.” 

“I know. I’m sorry I said I have the worst taste in men.” 

“You kind of do,” Eames says, and cups Arthur’s face with both hands, just to see if Arthur will stop him. He doesn’t. “But you like me anyway, right?” 

Arthur doesn’t answer that. But he does whisper, his lips now only an inch away from Eames’, “This doesn’t mean we’ll skip the drink”, and Eames barely has time to voice his agreement before Arthur, finally, kisses him. 

Eames buys them both water, and nine days after that, Arthur buys them both lunch, and they don’t feed the ducks but they go look at them anyway, and Eames kisses Arthur’s cheek and invites him to movie night, and they spend several hours decidedly not watching The Best Trilogy of All Time, but it doesn’t matter, because they’ll get to it in the morning, or the morning after that. They have all the time in the world.  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought.


End file.
